


Be with you

by purplebullet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, PG-13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplebullet/pseuds/purplebullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's just so natural to be with someone, and that is the case for John with Sherlock. He's with him whenever he's needed, also when he's not, and during their usual routine it happens. What's been bound to happen, the thing they haven't been dancing around but just the thing that's always been there, around them, around everything they did. And it gets acknowledged at last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be with you

**Author's Note:**

> The story doesn't really have a 'main subject'; there's working on a case, mixed with some general musing and in the end, getting together. At last.

\--

There are many people who wonder why such a friendly, ordinary and above all, _sane_ man like John Watson willingly tags along with the arrogant, one-of-a-kind and _in_ sane Sherlock Holmes. John knows this, and he also knows no one will ever actually ask him. They're all curious, but too afraid to step up and just get it over with. Whether their fear has to do with the possibility of having to speak to Sherlock as well is not clear, though it is the most credible option. Either way, it doesn't bother John that all these people dare to do is look at him from a distance, eyes filled with questions they are unable to ask because they're cowards. It gives him a sense of importance, really, a powerful feeling he's admittedly growing quite fond of.

Of course, this does not go unnoticed by Sherlock. (Nothing ever does, unless it has to do with the latest winner of X Factor who everyone talks about and Sherlock walks away before anyone asks him about it. Ever since the solar system revelation he's more careful with letting John know what he does or does not know, but John always knows when Sherlock has no clue what the subject at hand is about. It's his eyes that give it away, John thinks, as they always dart from one person to the other in panic as Sherlock tries to figure out the obvious. John is careful not to mention this piece of information to Sherlock, because if he does Sherlock will do anything to get rid of this habit and John will be one step further away from solving the enigma that is the consulting detective.)

One of the things John cannot fathom about Sherlock is how he can jump from one subject to the other at the most illogical times. While John is still breaking his head over a solution he'll probably never attain anyway, Sherlock is long past it and continues either one of the conversations they were having before the entire case started or starts asking questions about things that are bugging him. Now is no different, but now, John is prepared for it. Sort of.

“Doesn't it bother you?”

John blinks and looks up at Sherlock, who's walking a little ahead of him. “What, the triplets murder? Of course it does.”

“Not that,” Sherlock says with an edge to his voice. “The people.”

John frowns. “What people?”

“The people who keep staring at you everywhere we go, the ones who obviously need something from you but are too scared to ask it – those people.”

John is sure that if he hadn't noticed it a while ago, he still wouldn't have a clue what Sherlock was going on about. And, considering Sherlock's intolerance for stupidity, no matter how righteous it may be, he would've dropped the subject to come back to it later when he had more patience. That mostly happened after he'd solved the case and had John praise him. That wouldn't happen this time, though.

“Oh, that.” John's frown fades away. “No, it doesn't bother me. Not anymore at least.”

Sherlock turns his head to give him a rather surprised look. “You've noticed?”

John smiles. “Of course I have. I'm not an idiot.”

Sherlock smiles back at him and focuses on the road ahead of them. The murder took place in an isolated dwelling and it's a good fifteen minute walk to the main road, where they'll find taxis. It's surprisingly quiet for a place close to London, though John can appreciate that every once in a while. Sherlock probably does too, like he can appreciate stars, though maybe in this case he may find it annoying. He's been quite gleeful ever since Lestrade revealed it was a triplet murder and he's obviously desperate to start working on it, despite said triplets being _babies_. It's all a bit morbid, really.

“Why doesn't it?”

“Hm?”

John catches up with Sherlock so he can walk next to him. It's a little embarrassing, with their height difference, but this way he doesn't feel like he's following Sherlock around like a puppy (which is the case anyway).

“Bother you,” Sherlock clarifies. “Why doesn't it bother you?”

“You can't deduce that?”

John's smile widens at the mild glare he receives. Despite Sherlock being such a big smart-ass himself, he can't stand it when he's at the receiving end of it. Obviously John makes sure he is as often as he can.

“I do what I want and they can sod off if they don't like it,” John says with a strength in his voice that reminds him of his days in the army. Sherlock notices and looks quite pleased. He doesn't reply.

\--

Sgt. Donovan is starting to get on his nerves. John is sure she's a nice woman, but it's a little hard to see when all she does is tell him how he's making a mistake by hanging around Sherlock. He'd like to ask her whether she'd like it if he meddled with what was going on between her and Anderson, but he's smart enough to be the better man here so he keeps his mouth shut. For now.

“Clearly you're in it for the thrill,” she continues, unaware of his clenched jaw and the rigid pose he's adapted. He keeps his eyes fixed on Sherlock and Lestrade talking. “But with Sherlock you get more than that. Sooner or later you'll realize it's a mistake to be by his side, because he's-”

“A psychopath? A possible criminal mastermind who will turn on us one day and kill the whole of London with only a banana and a rubber band? Is that what you're getting at, Sergeant?” Sgt. Donovan looks surprised at his little outburst, unaware of what is yet to come. “Because if you are then I'll tell you once and for all you're wrong. He's not like that. He might 'get off' on somewhat disturbing things but he'll never be the cause of any of those. And as a part of the police there must be something about this entire charade _you_ get off on, I'm sure.”

“Let's just hope it's not Anderson.”  

John moves his eyes from Sgt. Donovan's to see Sherlock standing behind her, face straight though John can see the hint of amusement around the corner of his eyes.

“No offense, Sally, but your taste is even worse than John's when he dresses up for Christmas. Oh wait, that _was_ an offense.” He smiles sweetly. “Good night.”

He brushes past her as well as John, leaving the both of them perplex until John realizes Sherlock is _leaving_ , so he better follows before he's disappeared to God knows where. John raises his hand at Greg in goodbye and doesn't look at Sgt. Donovan before he turns around and jogs after Sherlock.

\--

“So it's solved then, the triplets murder?” John asks when they enter their apartment, Sherlock heading for his laptop right away. His, as in John's. Of course.

Sherlock doesn't hear him. He takes a seat at the desk and opens the laptop, the screen's light blindingly bright with the room's light dimly lit. John switches on the lamp near Sherlock because the man won't do it himself anyway, and stares at Sherlock for a while, hoping for a miracle and, with it, an answer. John knows Sherlock often tunes everything and everyone out when he's set on a case, but John needs some information because he's not sure why they were at the other crime scene just now and why Sherlock's conversation with Greg took a while.

“I'll make us some tea, then?” John says when it's clear Sherlock definitely didn't hear him, though when he mentions tea Sherlock does (not quite surprisingly) make a sound of agreement. John shakes his head and goes into the kitchen.

They're out of tea, John notices once he's checked all the cupboards, so he's going to make coffee instead. He doubts Sherlock will notice any difference; in the back of his mind there might be a voice muttering about it but it won't get any further than that, with the case and all. Which case, exactly, is still unclear to John and he's going to bug Sherlock about it until he tells him.

Or threatens to lock him out. The one time Sherlock actually did do it was quite unpleasant – John really does like Mrs. Hudson but that one night at her place was a bit... traumatizing. Sherlock likes to remind him of it when he thinks John is being annoying, and every time he does John goes mute instantly because he cannot survive another night with fluffy, with cat covered patterns blankets and the constant noise of a brook ringing through the bedroom. (Apparently it calms Mrs. Hudson down, while all it does is put John's bladder on hyperactive.)

With the memory (sadly enough) in mind, John brings Sherlock his coffee. He takes a seat in his own chair, with view on Sherlock, and waits. Waits until Sherlock looks less busy and therefore less likely to be unreasonable again. After Sherlock's taken his first sip, John tells himself, he'll ask.

That night Sherlock doesn't drink anything.

\--

Another day, another violin session which indicates Sherlock is a bit stuck on something. It's better than the multiple nicotine patches and the melody is nice, so John has woken up in a good mood.

“You know I take sugar in my coffee.”

John's mouth hangs open, as he was about to say good morning, and he gives his flatmate a wide-eyed stare for a moment or two before his brain starts working. The greeting he's gotten tells him Sherlock hasn't given his brain a rest, which can only mean the case is either very interesting or very difficult. Most of the time it's both.

“Uh, yes, I do. Why, do you want some?”

“Yes, I'd love some.”

John frowns only a little at the somewhat strange beginning of the morning (though, admittedly, he's had worse) before a yawn wipes it from his face. He stretches out and makes a noise that is either a moan or a growl, one he can't identify nor find the reason for, and then he happily goes to the kitchen. The sun is shining and heats up the apartment to a comfortable temperature, and John feels relaxed.

“You better get dressed first.”

John doesn't take the trouble to stop. “Why's that?” he asks as he goes with a hand through his hair, hoping to flatten it a bit.

“We're out of sugar.”

This time John does stop. He stands there for a moment, not even halfway in the kitchen, before he slowly turns around to face Sherlock.

“What?”

“Sugar,” Sherlock repeats. “We're out. You should buy some at the supermarket.”

John feels all the happiness seep out of him. “Why didn't you go, then? If you wanted coffee so badly?”

Sherlock doesn't answer, instead starts playing his violin again, this time indulging John with a bit of _Yellow Submarine_. John needs a moment to get over the shock of Sherlock actually knowing it, then frowns again, sighs and feels tired all over. He doesn't want to go out yet, if at all.

“I'll just go borrow some from Mrs. Hudson,” he murmurs. “You take two, right?”

He doesn't know why he asks when he's certain of it. Maybe he wants to chat, since Sherlock seems to be in a chatty mood despite the entire case-thing and its difficulty, and now that John thinks about it he really could do with a continuation of last night. Maybe find out what case Sherlock's working on, the triplets one or the one he got yesterday. Sherlock's worked on multiple cases at the same time before, mostly when they were a bit easy, but even then John knew what exactly was going on. Now he doesn't. It's a bit unsettling.

Sherlock's turned to the window and has changed the tune. John recognizes it as the melody he woke up to so he presumes Sherlock's back to thinking again, maybe even visiting his mind palace if he wishes to. John tries to come up with his own mind construction as he makes his way upstairs to get dressed, and by the time he's in his bedroom he realizes he's only going to Mrs. Hudson, who's seen him in his robe before. He curses Sherlock and how easily he distracts him as he goes downstairs again, deliberately ignoring the grin Sherlock is keen on not hiding when he passes the doorway to go to Mrs. Hudson's.

He really can be prick sometimes.

\--

“You're a _bloody_ idiot, you know that?!”

Sherlock's eyes widen in genuine surprise, the frown on his face indicating he's equally puzzled. “ _I'm_ an idiot?”

“Yes, _you_ ,” John snaps, finding trouble to prevent himself from hitting Sherlock in the face. He deserves it, but there are more important things to deal with at the moment. “It didn't occur to you that I might want to know you've been chasing the _mafia_ all this time?”

“You know now.”

“Because now _they're_ chasing _us_!”

“Oi!”

John snaps his head to the side and feels his body ache already at the sight of one of the mafia members, long coat and hat included. Sherlock wouldn't do too bad in the mafia, John is sure, which makes him all the more relieved to have Sherlock on the good side. John isn't as happy with that as he could be, which is only normal since it's the consulting detective's fault they're being chased through London. Luckily Sherlock knows every street, every alley in the city, but sadly enough so does the mafia.

And they're starting to catch up.

“Sherlock,” John calls through his panting as the both of them run, Sherlock naturally ahead. “Tell me you've got a plan.”

“In here, John,” is Sherlock's reply, and it's as good as a yes so John follows Sherlock into another alleyway. (He'd follow him regardless of the answer – whatever Sherlock does, he's sure he couldn't do any better himself.)

They're forced to slow down as the alleyway is very, very narrow. John nearly doesn't fit, feels his belly scrape the wall in front of him slightly and thinks that losing a little weight might be convenient. Despite the slowed pace Sherlock is still faster than him, and John would rather not slow them down even more. If they get caught they're in big, big trouble, Sherlock especially. John doesn't want to be the one at fault if Sherlock gets caught, whether it's tonight or any other night they're being chased.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock says impatiently, and only now does John see they're headed for a very small door at the end of the alleyway. Hopefully no one lives there, and if so, John hopes Sherlock knows the person who inhabits the unfortunate place.

Probably not, though.

John groans and starts panicking when he hears the running of the men chasing them coming closer. They have guns – they wouldn't be the mafia if they didn't – and if they reach John before he's through the door he'll get shot – “Obviously,” Sherlock would say – and if he gets shot... He doesn't want to think about what happens after that.

There are shouts coming from somewhere way too close to him and the reason for John's panting is no longer because he's demanding too much from his body. John takes a look behind him, sees no one at the other side so far and turns his head back when he feels a hand taking a hold of his, pulling him along. Sherlock can be surprisingly strong despite his thin appearance, and even though John knew that ever since getting punched in the face by the man it still takes him off guard.

Sherlock doesn't speak as he uses all his strength to pull John towards the door, which he opens once John is getting close enough (as is the mafia), and just when John hears a shouted, “Hey!” followed by a frantic, “They're over here!” Sherlock tugs at his hand and John stumbles through the doorway, taking Sherlock down with him. Their fall ends up being a good thing, as even before they hit the floor the sound of gunshots reaches their ears, though the bullets don't reach their bodies.

The adrenaline is rushing through John's veins; he feels like he can run around London twice if he has to – which may be the case if they don't get rid of the gang. John rolls off Sherlock – thank God there wasn't anyone to see that – and manages to get out of the mafia's sight, and so out of range. He quickly pulls Sherlock aside as well, into safety, into secure darkness where they can take a second or two to catch their breath.

Sherlock doesn't even give them one. He's on his feet the moment he's safe, bringing John up with a tug at his coat, and then they're holding hands again. John thinks of commenting on it but finds himself too breathless to, so he simply lets Sherlock lead them through the dark place – definitely a house, if the kitchen table he's run into is any indication.

“You okay?” Sherlock asks when John can't stop himself from biting out a groan, the stinging in his leg nearly as painful as the one that caused his limp.

“Fine,” he grits out, because he will be, eventually, and he'd rather have an ache in his leg than a hole shot through it.

Sherlock seems to agree and doesn't pry, much like John expected, though he is obviously more careful when guiding him through the house. At one point John is sure he hears movement that doesn't come from them, but he waves it off as a rat or something alike; even if it is an inhabitant it doesn't matter, since they'll be out here soon enough without having really disturbed the person. Or at least that's what John hopes. It could end badly if the mafia decides to follow them inside the house, though the lack of noise behind him contradicts his thoughts. That may be because all he can hear is his own breathing, which is loud and hard even to his own ears.

He'd be embarrassed if he could muster the energy. All he can think of now is _run, run, run_ and, quite honestly, also _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_. It's always been that way during times like these. John has made peace with it a while ago.

When there is light at last John's first reaction is to squeeze his eyes shut. He'd just begun to adapt to the dark and now they're out in the open again, and even though the sun is setting the sky is still very bright. Sherlock doesn't let go of John's hand until he sees John's eyes have adjusted to the light, which is oddly considerable of him but, yet again, not really surprising. John would do the same.

He doesn't look around now that he can see his surroundings again. He trusts Sherlock to know where they are and to know the fastest way to safety, which is probably home. Despite their uprising popularity there aren't many people who know where they live (yet), and John hopes to keep it that way. Not only for himself and the peace he thinks he genuinely deserves, but also for Sherlock. If criminals find out where he lives he won't have safe spot left, and while John is sure Sherlock has plenty alternative places to go to he's also sure Sherlock prefers 221B Baker Street above all else.

John looks behind him out of reflex more than anything, feeling the need to check behind his back just in case he's missed something, a noise, a single sound that may mean life or death to him. He's relieved to see no one chasing them any longer, but that doesn't make the adrenaline pumping through his veins disappear. That will take a longer time – he'll probably go to bed with it, which suits him just fine.

\--

Despite him being in a better shape than John, Sherlock is tired as well. Exhausted, really. John can see it, as clear as daylight. He doesn't comment on it, too tired himself to utter even a single word, and drops his heavy body in his one-seat. He struggles with getting the pillow from behind his back and onto the floor for a bit, drawing Sherlock's attention as he does, and when Sherlock stands still before him and looks down at him with a serious look on his face, all John can do is smile.

They're giggling a moment later.

“Oh God, I can't believe you got yourself involved with the _mafia_ ,” John says, still not entirely believing it even though he'd most definitely seen the members in real life not even ten minutes ago.

“It's only the London mafia,” Sherlock replies. “They're rubbish.”

John's giggle grows into actual laughter, amused though he knows he shouldn't be. Sherlock's gotten himself involved in many dangerous things, but the mafia is an entirely different kind of dangerous. The kind of dangerous John has never wished to encounter – the kind of dangerous that _scares_ him.

“Rubbish or not, they could still have gotten their hands on you easier than anyone else,” John says, his breath starting to even out. When Sherlock doesn't reply he adds, “Tell me next time. I don't like being kept in the dark.”

John knows what Sherlock's going to say even before he sees the tiny smirk on the other's lips. “It didn't look like it when I led you through the house.”

“Yes, well.”

John takes a breath, takes time to think of what he's going to say next. He shrugs instead, which seems to amuse Sherlock even more. It's a bit confusion when he shakes his head, that grin never leaving his face.

“You really are unbelievable sometimes, John.”

There is a moment of silence in which John is sure he hears what Sherlock wishes to say but, for some reason, doesn't. He's not sure whether it unsettles him. Usually Sherlock doesn't say things like these, things that sound like compliments. That's not Sherlock's style.

“I'd rather say that about you,” John retorts with a smile. “Except I always find you unbelievable.”

“Yet you trust me.”

Ah, so that's it. John nods. “Yet I trust you.”

He feels a bit like squirming at the look he receives in return. Sherlock keeps that look, the one where he tries to figure out the mystery that lies before him (which is mostly directed towards a dead body), fixated on him without showing any sign of looking away any time soon. John wonders what he can read; he'd like to know since he's somewhat fuzzy on the details himself.

There is a question in Sherlock's eyes, John realizes after a couple of moments. It might be what Sherlock wanted but couldn't say during the silence, it probably is, and John is proud of himself when he thinks he's figured out what that question is.

_Will you always trust me?_

The answer is obvious, though apparently not to Sherlock. Funny, that. How even the great Sherlock Holmes can get insecure over some things, and the most obvious ones at that.

“Guess we better go pay Greg a visit tomorrow,” John says and gets up from his seat to head to the kitchen. “Tea?”

He doesn't see it, but he's fairly sure Sherlock relaxes upon hearing the one, simple word. “Yes, please.”

When they've settled on the couch Sherlock usually occupies by himself not too long after, John is overcome by a feeling of comfort he hasn't had the pleasure of feeling in a very long time. Maybe he's never had the privilege to feel it at all, which makes him a bit sad as he thinks he's been missing out on something like this for quite some time. But then again, Sherlock's probably been missing out on it as well.

“You call him Greg.”

John stops munching on his biscuit to give Sherlock a confused look. Sherlock isn't looking at him, focusing on his tea instead, and John thinks maybe he isn't supposed to answer to this. Maybe this is like all the other times when Sherlock's just rambling away, as if talking to him but not really, and John's job is to shut up. Maybe he should leave.

“Why?”

A moment passes before Sherlock turns his head and locks eyes with John, who finds himself at a loss of words for a second, just a second, and swallows the bit of biscuit that was melting in his mouth.

“I... That's his name.”

“You don't call Sally by her first name.”

“No. I don't.” John frowns. “Sorry, why are we talking about this?”

A small smile crawls on Sherlock's lips and he shrugs. “I have no idea.”

Sherlock having no idea why he says something should be worrying. It isn't.

“Okay.” John looks at his lap, then at the remains of the biscuit in his hand. “Okay.” He holds it out to Sherlock, who, quite predictably, shakes his head.

“I never really know what I'm talking about when I'm with you.”

It's only a murmur, an observation Sherlock's most likely just made and shares just... because. Maybe because he can't keep it to himself; probably because he doesn't want to. John smiles.

“Is that a compliment?” “I don't know, is it?” Sherlock retorts quickly, revealing his honest confusion. John feels like, for once, he can answer confidently.

“Yes,” he says, and waits. He sees the changes in Sherlock's posture, subtle as they may be they're crystal clear to him. He can see Sherlock's thought pattern, clear in his head like they're his own thoughts, and though he knows he should be proud of being able to follow Sherlock like this he's just content. Content to watch and hear what is yet to be spoken, and it's a thrill, waiting for it. Because it will come, just like the sun will rise each morning this will turn up as well.

Finally.

“I don't know the proper continuation,” Sherlock finally admits, sounding a lot less confident than he has in half a year.

“Okay,” is all John says before he places his cup and the biscuit on the table in front of him, Sherlock following his lead instantly. When John turns to him, using not only his head but the rest of his body as far as it will co-operate, he sees a tension in Sherlock he can't quite place. That is, until he notices the way Sherlock can't seem to stop flexing his fingers.

“Are you... nervous?” John asks, incredulous, and finds himself astonished when Sherlock goes rigid in that way of his that can only mean he hit the spot. Despite himself, John laughs. “Oh God, you really are always unbelievable.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest, maybe call this whole thing off, but John will have none of it. Not now. He's quick to cover one of Sherlock's hands with his own to squeeze it reassuringly, which, as he should've known, doesn't really work the way it should. It only makes Sherlock even more nervous, but as he's unwilling to admit it he bravely turns his body towards John as well and refuses to lose eye-contact.

Oh, how endearing he can be.

“I'd say _you're_ the endearing one here,” Sherlock says, cutting through John's thoughts and taking him by surprise. A considerable amount of tension flows out of Sherlock's body upon noticing the reaction, but John can also be a bloody stubborn bastard who won't let the other win – especially not when said other is Sherlock Holmes.

He uses his other hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, only to retract it almost immediately because _that_... that's just weird. Even for them – or well, _especially_ for them. Sherlock's grin says he agrees, and then it's Sherlock being the actual brave one when he moves a little closer to John on the couch. It's only when Sherlock seems too insecure (oh, how lovely) to do anything more that John comes to his senses again and takes the lead once more. Or so he thinks, because the moment he starts moving his face closer to Sherlock's the consulting detective starts doing the same, and they stop short when only a few inches are resting between their lips.

Sherlock's eyes – both green and blue and gray all at once – are scanning John's face like his life is depending on it, which in some way, it is. John can't stop himself from glancing at Sherlock's mouth, which, as many things (except for X Factor), doesn't go unnoticed by the man.

John leans in to kiss the beginning of a self-satisfied smirk off Sherlock's face, and while he's pretty sure he succeeds his mind is more taken over by the sensation of the action. Sherlock's lips are thicker than they look and soft, a bit cold from the outside air, but nice. Very nice, even.

When John draws back he immediately knows Sherlock hasn't closed his eyes, has probably been studying everything about John when he'd had his eyes shut, but before John can comment on it – not that he was going to – Sherlock leans in again and presses his lips to John's once more. This time he does close his eyes, and after the initial shock John follows his lead, with pleasure.

The kiss, like the previous one, is a simple lips-on-lips one. John doesn't remember ever finding it so fascinating and strangely satisfying, and he hopes Sherlock feels the same, hopes he won't classify it as boring. That would be quite... horrific.

Sherlock takes a longer time to remove his mouth from John's, the reasons for it unknown to the army doctor (which he doesn't mind), and when Sherlock leans back after about half a minute it takes John a surprising bit of effort to open his eyes again. He finds himself thinking he wouldn't mind closing his eyes forever as long as Sherlock is there with him, kissing him.

Whether the smirk on Sherlock's face is because the consulting detective has read his thoughts or because he's thinking of some things of his own is unclear, and really, John doesn't care either way. Sherlock can know everything if it's up to him – that's always been the case, anyway.

“I love you,” John says into the silence, the words out in the open before he can stop them. What shocks him isn't the fact that he's said them, he's always known he'd say them at some time; what shocks him is that after saying them, Sherlock moves the hand covered with John's so he can entwine their fingers.

“Be with me,” Sherlock replies, blurts out nearly as bluntly as John, and it makes John laugh, because isn't it quite typical for them to blurt out their feelings like this after it's been made pretty clear there is no need to say anything? Sherlock is quick to laugh along with him, giggle like they do when they've had a pleasant chase or made a good joke at someone's expense, and that's really all they need.

They both know it was never a question of either of them staying by the other's side. That deal has been made a very long time ago.


End file.
